Life Round Here

Here again, the concrete shares itself with the clouds,

Rigid uniformity. And cadence. And colour,

Moves endlessly with the multitude,

An exodus from work, or school.

Teeming teens. A torrent of toddlers. The army of Adults…

See? I’m good with alliteration.

The nations of many packed into four small zones, so many tongues my head is filled with the sound of the familiar, mashed into words I will never remember.

I always thought of it as my city, does it belong to me alone? The thought of it breaks me to pieces. It is the land of the traveller, always baring its pleasure to strangers, but its secrets-like the pipe to the addict-are persistent to those that seek it out.

A toast to the system that feeds on the extremes; Luxury flights and Economy class, Museums and Nightclubs, Rolls-royce and the overcrowded railway. The in-betweens disappear in pavement cracks. Too much of the many to matter.

The jack-of-all trades will pass long before his exhausted his talents here. His gravestone will read: No one, Master of None. London once again has had its fun.

To become undone at the weight of all its gifts, pressed to nothing at the heaviness of the street lights. Shoved into the torrent of the heaving mass, spat out on the side street of some new adventure. A newborn again in the town he was born.


Fireside (How Was Your 15 Minutes?)

No. All the things you thought were true.

They have disappeared to a fine ash.

No one knows how long the flame burns,

They just know it was, a long time ago,

A sooty hard coal.

Brittle and cool to the touch.

Plenipotent, trapped in graphene plates

Till the time to shine is long since late

Bringing together all the years it’s had to wait.

Deep in the ground, fusing together

All the things that lived and died above you,

came to join you, the weight of years pressed pieces together.

Until you were discovered.

Unearthed from the mother.

Gathered with your fellows.

But it’s your lucky day!

You get fed to the fireplace.

For 15 minutes you get to show your worth

Millennia of work, poured out in one burst.

The coals in symphony with one another

Their hands are in the air, light gold and red fingers,

Struck through with so much blues,

Giving its very soul to another,

In the fire.

Warm and pretty,

Conjured again when the fans are ready.

But a coal has one flame, none is left

It’s dead grey ashes cast aside for the next.

Your soul burned hot, your flames retired.

Make way for more coals on the fire.


Behold, snap I mean there she go! the sprightly traveller
Sister of the gypsie
With most she seems so much to matter
But beneath, her skin betrays a mystery
Of the working of God on the planet below
The Golden ratio, in beautiful code

Its the bloom of her Lotus Flower
The mathematical formula that brings life to power and shapes it around us
Her passion surrounds us

She personifies the unknown from what I can gather
Or at least the misunderstood as you can tell from my chatter
Even though I dont fully understand her
The allure of her presence keeps me enraptured
As the sun captured in endless sayagata

I keep her safe from the rain
From the glaciers of Galician mountains
And deep sleet in elysian plains
While all the while I learn the wiles of gypsie blood that fills her veins.

Eyes deep as the earth, connected to both poles as the mother is
From my own she goes to build shelters
To leave the concrete and feel the beach.
As I speak I hear her heart beat.

Concrete Slice

The steel-cold kobold,
Peddle on frost-bitten roads.
Before the vendors of those,
Who sell fried chicken.
Or Kebaby’s where it may get stabby.
Or any classic backdrop of a modern urban tragedy.

The counter-culture soldier says to another;
“I thought we were leaving all the gear with your brother?
And we’d be getting no more calls or bother?
If I have to do a bird who will take care of my mother?”

Because the counter-culture soldier is an only son,
Of a weary single mother whose best has come undone.
And we all know this isn’t a question of just one;

That bought the lie of power from a little white square,
With freedom or a life the price for peddling the gear.
But there is little turnover in preaching to the choir,
Cos profit is the motive for the scene yet to transpire.

Easy to take aim at the youth gone wrong.
Hard to ask ourselves where all the drugs come from.

Scene ends, the counter-culture soldier has laid his life down.
Common consequence when handling the White and the Brown.
His eulogy is held over broadcasting silence.
Soul lost to a war not in Iraq or Northern Ireland.

But who will mourn this soldier when they put him in the ground?
No gun salute, just the sirens sound.
Another young soldier will replicate this life.
The same tale in this jungle, another concrete slice.

The Voices in the Wall/ The Walls are thin, here.

The voices in the Wall, think they’re all so fucking cool,
Pseudo-psychoanalysts, just a bunch of nosey tools,
Is there any right that these jumped-up, moralistic, prigs can find to try and listen in,
Through the thin,
Drywall and concrete brick,
It makes me sick,
Like a fly on the wall that won’t be crushed,
Reality TV that they don’t need to rush with at all.
No delay.
No replay.
They’ll be here everyday to comment on, what’s going on
With the neighbours round the way.
When was it ever acceptable to play Voyeur?
Even if you want to do it at least show yourselves, pervs!
The enemy I can’t see has no right to judge me.
I remember the old days…
Actually, I won’t call them old days, still quite fresh of face
When all my enmity was conveyed to some external space,
The truth? With crushing brevity; it’s my own mental state.
The walls are thin, here.
Disembodied voices disappear and reappear.
Unable to vent my strife, despite the agony  of knowing no one’s there.
Of faceless foes and twice failed family,
Partaking in this twisted tragedy,
The secrets are of my own making,
All to the voyeur, just straight laid bare for the taking.
Even in my sanctuary can’t receive any rest,
The newest round of judgement seems to weigh heavy on my chest.
Common sense says opinions of wisdom mustn’t keep us down,
But close-minded misconceptions make a clamour for my crown,
Tears of a clown, smile on my face.
Pent up by pernicious thoughts that try to keep me in place,
Who knew such bitterness could mix with such utter disgrace,
I am the writers nemesis; my own mind is misplaced.


Anon, anon.
More stunning than the setting sun,
more real to me than what lives behind my ribs and in-between my lungs,
I would live and die for you, and live again if that’s what it would take,
cut out my tongue so that I could no longer ply my trade,
You’re quick to call me a fake, like:
“boy you think I ain’t aware?
Your poetry ain’t quite enough to loose my underwear,
or you thought those were the first cute words I’ve had to sit and hear?”
so I stake;
My claim upon your heart like Vamps teeth,
hoping a mans deeds can trump his mouthpiece,
I only went to grab my cape so I could sweep you off your feet.
But you knew the age of heroes was already undone,
and to be fair, freely shedding tears is not my custom,
but I had just lost one,
the ugly duckling sung his swan song,
now I’m sat here wondering where the bus back’s gonna come from.
It used to be,
I’d be utility to any silly goose for free,
I couldn’t see that you were using me, until you’re used to me,
And you weren’t just a beat,
You were the jewel of my campaign,
but the shoe fits, walked a mile in it to see change,
this Tomcat cracked the riddle,
so I’m stopping the blame game,
Instead like dark wizards,
I just never say your damn name.


Forgive me Heavenly Mother,  I have sinned,
The maker-of-paths left me in my youth;
It was your law that was engraved on my heart,
It was your heart that nourished me, root and bough
It was your bough that let my hands touch the sky,
Like a flighty bird I left your branch blind to the wind before me,
Like a winter tree I shrugged off your shade
My own law would guide me and you would behold my greatness,
Verses in the back pocket, notes in the front (Soul Other Node) pulled a prodigal
A period of prodigals, until your soul could not cry out in its usual ire,
Until the fear for your (Self Over New) caused you,
To douse the flames, careful not to scorch me, the love on fire,
I was not proud, to see one so strong seem so cowed,
But you and maybe I knew
There was no act too new, none too low for you,
To reconcile your (Same Obviously Not) from somewhere far,
I still hear the words that bind us: